


A Quiet Place

by Keller_Bloom



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:07:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27050173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keller_Bloom/pseuds/Keller_Bloom
Summary: The Hound lays dying, his infected leg wound causing a dangerous fever that engulfs his whole body. Despite his pleas Arya would not grant him the mercy he begged for.In his delerium he sees a pretty little bird, whose song he once stole.Whomptober 2020Prompt No 25: I think I'll just collapse right here, thanks: Disorientation| Blurred Vision| Ringing Ears
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	A Quiet Place

The pain from his infected leg shot fiery bolts of pain through his veins as he sat, collapsed, with his throat hoarse.

He’d begged Arya for mercy. Begged. But she had walked away, leaving him to die in agony. The humiliation added to his hurt in ways in which only those who despise themselves could truly comprehend.

He deserved this.

His head buzzed with fever, ears ringing. His skin was hot and sticky as the infection clawed at him with burning talons. It was a fire in his blood. It smothered his body like a blanket of flames, his worst nightmare made reality.

This is how it would end for The Hound. He knew he deserved this torment. Let him be dragged to hell for his worthless soul. Let him feel the hell fire melt away his skin as punishment for his wasted and selfish life. The end could not come soon enough, but he knew he would linger here for hours before the blessed relief of death would finally take him. And he deserved it all.

The world around him span as the fever took hold. He closed his eyes against the pull as the ground seemed to lurch in sickening circles. Jolts of pain and heat made him so disorientated that he could barley remember where he was or which way the sky hung.

Reluctantly he forced his eyes open again. He hoped that the world would right itself or that Arya would return and remember where the heart was. His eyes, cooked with fever, betrayed him too, for now all the world was a blur of colours that seemed to stretch, ever moving, beyond the bounds of his vision. The whole world was a pulsating nightmare. It was a churning, agonising hell and he began to lose control of himself. His panic would tear him apart and make him lose his mind. The thought made his eyes flood with hopeless tears. Soon he would be screaming like a mad man, a broken wretched thing, more animal than human like he had always feared he’d become. The worst of humanity; a senseless demon, just like his brother.

The colours swirled together and formed a central mass. Red and pink shapes danced ever closer to him like the flames that had once melted his face. His screams that day had only been marginally louder than Gregor’s demented laugh. That cursed laugh that haunted his dreams every night. His ears rang with the sound now.

“No brother.” He whimpered, as though a child again. But a voice replied in a sweet melodic tune. It was not Gregor's hellish snarl, but clean and pure. A song taken and cherished. A memory he held close in his heart. It chased away the ghost of his brother with its sweet music.

“Gentle Mother, font of mercy,  
save our sons from war, we pray,  
stay the swords and stay the arrows,  
let them know a better day.  
Gentle Mother, strength of women,  
help our daughters through this fray,  
soothe the wrath and tame the fury,  
teach us all a kinder way.”

“Little bird.” He whispered, and as he spoke she appeared before him.

Red hair, flaming brighter than the setting sun, she stood in her flowing pink gown, soft, silky and loose; a promise of what lay beneath. Always this was how he pictured her.

“You’re not real.” He panted.

“I’ve come to take you to the quiet place.” Her soft voice replied.

The Hound whimpered in response. He knew now something he had been unsure of before. He wanted to be free of this pain, but he did not want to die. Fear shook him like a rag doll.

“No quiet place for me little bird. Just fire and torment.” His voice cracked with emotion, but she just looked on.

“I am high in the clouds.” She said. “You should find me there. Protect me.”

“I couldn’t protect you little bird,” he cried, “I never could! I let them beat you. I let them…”

“You cloaked me.”

“I’m sorry little bird.” The pain was immense now, the fever was at its peak. “I’m sorry.”

Her voice never wavered. “You cloaked me. You brought me under your protection. Come and find me, protect me in the clouds. I can show you the way.”

She knelt before him and cupped his ruined face. Where the ghost of her touch lingered, he felt a cooling pressure that made him shudder in relief.

“There are true knights,” she said, “not all the songs are lies.”

“Little bird…” he began, but did not know what to say.

“I’ll be waiting for you.” She said.

“In the clouds.” He murmured back. His eyes felt heavy and he closed them again. He felt her soft kiss on his cheek.

“Don’t leave me.” He begged, “Please come back.” He reached out for her blindly, but she was gone. She’d never been there at all.

A voice cried out in the distance, a man’s voice. Others followed. Perhaps he would be killed now, he thought, it might be over soon. That brought him some comfort.

As the illness took hold he drifted into unconsciousness. He would be easy pickings for a travelling rogue. He sat and waited for death, and as he waited he prayed for his little bird in the clouds with her sweet songs.

He prayed for his little bird and a quiet place.


End file.
